Lorraine, a scowl on his face and wrath in his heart, went slowly down into the cafÉ—never seeing whom he passed—and made his way to a secluded table in the darkest corner.

For a time he sat staring at the wall—across his mental vision floated pictures of his courtship and his short married life—of the beautiful woman he had caressed and who had caressed him—whose arms had been around his neck—whose ruddy head had lain on his shoulder—whose lips he had kissed—whose form he had embraced in a fury of tenderness—of the woman who was his wife—who was his wife for yet a little time longer, until the Courts could cut the bond asunder. The uncertainty that had dominated him was ended. He knew his mind now—knew whether he loved her still or whether that love was turned to hate. Why had he not known sooner? Why had it taken him so long to realize it? Why had he vacillated like a pendulum—not sure of himself nor of his feelings? Why had he had any feeling for her since she had none for him?... He laughed—a little, bitter laugh—and turned his face deeper into the shadow. It was not pleasant to contemplate. It had been misery for him every day since that shameful one when he had found her gone—and waiting, dazed and unbelieving, had read the truth in the newspapers—the horrible, damning truth, that she had given herself to another man.

And now—she had returned; flung aside by the man. Would he receive her! take her back! take someone's else leavings! a dishonored woman—lower than the hired ones who stand for pay, honest in their dishonor.

Had she lost all idea of the fitness of things? Was she dead to every sense of shame that she should thus show herself at the Club—to all the mob—and flaunt her degradation before their very eyes—to their vast enjoyment and bitter tongues? And then to have met him—by accident, it was true; but none the less had she remained in seclusion it would not have happened, and he would not have been compelled to bear the ignominy of that scene, while a staringly curious crowd looked on, laughing slyly and with zest.

It was horrible! horrible! He buried his face in his hands and groaned in spirit. The humiliation of it all pressed down upon him with overwhelming weight. He was ashamed to leave the Club-house—he was ashamed to remain—he was ashamed to be seen—he was ashamed to——

"What's up, old chap?" said a hearty voice beside him. "Can't you put, or have you been guessing wrong in the stock market—like the most of us lately?"

Lorraine looked up to see Steuart Cameron stretch his long length in a chair opposite and draw out his tobacco bag.

"Oh—is that you, Cameron?" said he. "No—that is, I've been feeling a—bit out of sorts the last day or so—stomach, I reckon. Have something?"

"No, thanks—I've cut it out for a month," replied Cameron, neatly rolling a cigarette and licking it. "Do you know," striking a match and holding his head to one side while he deftly applied the flame—"I never before realized how long a month was—it's been a week since yesterday."

"At that rate your month will be over in about four days," Lorraine replied, with a forced laugh.

"That is an idea—I hadn't thought of it," said Cameron.

He had seen the meeting on the piazza and had followed Lorraine down for the purpose of being with him—after a little. He was Lorraine's particular friend, and he knew that presently it would be well for the other to have some one to talk to.

Lorraine relapsed into moody silence. Cameron smoked and rattled ahead, without pausing for answers nor seeming to note their absence.

Occasionally Lorraine stirred himself to throw out a reply, only to fall again, after a moment, into silence. Cameron talked on—with never a word however which could imply that he was waiting for his friend to unburden himself. He was aware that Lorraine must break out to some one—the longer he waited the surer it was, and the less likely that he would choose his confidant. He would go off like a delayed explosion—say things that later he would give much to unsay, and which would be much better unsaid. But the unsaying being impossible, it was best that he should say them to him—who would forget them.

It is not many friends who will voluntarily consent to act as safety valves for the overflow of another's feelings—and then not tell. And Cameron's patience and consideration were at last rewarded.

Lorraine shook himself—as though to get rid of his thoughts—and sat up.

"Cameron," he said, "what shall I do? Stephanie is back—she was here in the Club—just now. I met her on the front piazza—before them all!"

"I know," said Cameron, "I saw it."

Lorraine regarded him thoughtfully.

"And you followed me here so as to—it was mighty good of you, Steuart."

Cameron smiled sympathetically.

"What do you think you want to do?" said he.

Lorraine made a despairing gesture.

"I don't know—except that I shall never take her back," he replied.

"Um—what else is there to decide?" Cameron asked.

"Whether I also shan't kill Amherst!" exclaimed Lorraine.

Cameron shook his head. "It is too late now!"

"Too late for what?"

"To kill him."

"Why?"

"If you've cast off Stephanie, you've let him out."

"What?" Lorraine demanded. "I've let him out?"

"To my mind, yes. If another man goes off with my wife, I'm not justified in killing him unless I'm ready to take my wife back. If she is worthless it is folly to kill because of her. The killing is for her honor—for having led her astray."

"And is my honor not to be considered?" asked Lorraine vehemently.

"How has your honor been affected?" returned Cameron gently.

"My God!—how hasn't it been affected! Didn't he run away with my wife?"

"He ran away with something that you say you don't want," Cameron pursued.

"That is why I don't want her—because she betrayed me."

"Because she betrayed you may be valid ground for you to kill her—it certainly isn't ground for killing him."

"Amherst is the man in the case, isn't he?"

"In the case with her—and her you have refused to recognize. The ethics of the situation are involved and debatable but I repeat that this much is clear: unless you are willing to take her back, you have no justification nor excuse for killing Amherst."

"As you said before!" Lorraine remarked.

"As I said before—and as I shall say twenty times, if necessary, until you see reason!"

"Suppose I had taken her back—what then?"

"Then," said Cameron slowly—"it would depend on what she wanted. Your first duty would be to her."

Lorraine frowned and stared at the table.

"You may be right," he admitted, "but what do you think is my duty to myself under the circumstances?"

"If I were in your place," Cameron answered, "I should first consider whether to take her back——"

"I have considered, I tell you—it is impossible."

"Then I should forget her and everything connected with her. I should turn the case over to my attorneys and go away until the trial. When the divorce is granted, I should resume my old life as if I had never been married."

"And Amherst—what would you do about him?" asked Lorraine.

"I should not think of him. To me, he would not exist."

"You have never been married!" commented Lorraine bitterly. "You cannot know the impulse to violence—the impulse to kill. I want to see him die—to choke him with my own hands—to feel his struggles—his writhings—his gasps—to prolong his agony—to watch his face in the death throes—to feel his last breath—sometimes, that is. At other times, I am indifferent. I don't care what becomes of her or him—nor myself. Why is it, Cameron, why is it?"

"It was the uncertainty—till you've made up your mind what to do," Cameron answered. "But it is over now, old man. You have decided.—Moreover you're likely to have plenty of time to master your impulse to homicide. Amherst has gone to Europe with Mrs. Amherst. They will likely be gone a long time."

"With Mrs. Amherst!" Lorraine exclaimed. "She has taken him back?"

"So to-night's Telegraph says."

"H-u-m—I suppose some people will think I should do that too."

"Many persons, many minds," replied Cameron. "However, it's no one's affairs but your own—so let them all go to the devil."

"It's different with Amherst," Lorraine reflected. "He's not smirched so much."

"So Society thinks."

"What do you think?"

"I think it is a question which concerns only the parties interested—so deeply concerns them, indeed, that no one else has any right to an opinion."

"In the abstract, no. But, in the practical, Society's view must be considered—it says the woman's case is very different from the man's—and it may make the husband feel it if he takes her back."

"Not for long—if he has the courage of his conduct, and fights," said Cameron. "However, you are not confronted by any such condition. You've met the situation according to custom. It is up to her now to do the fighting back."

"I'm not concerned for her; she's just a—woman," said Lorraine curtly.

"No—you're not concerned for her," replied Cameron slowly; "not concerned further than every man is concerned for a woman—that she gets fair play and a square deal."

"I'm perfectly willing for Society even to forget her past, if it wishes," said Lorraine. "I'm not vindictive. I'm indifferent. I'm done with her forever."

"You look at it in the proper spirit, old man," Cameron encouraged. "The time when men took the law into their own hands is past—with one exception, possibly. Your course is dignified, and thoroughly within your rights."

It had been easier than he had anticipated. Lorraine was steadier than he had thought—had borne the meeting with reasonable fortitude, considering the circumstances and the provocation. He leaned over and put his hand on his friend's shoulder.

"Old fellow," he said, "don't misunderstand me—but—don't let your feelings run away with you and say things to others that you will regret. You'll have plenty to try you—plenty to make you forget—plenty to anger you—but don't! don't! Bear in mind that this is an occasion when silence is more than golden."

"I've been fairly steady—don't you think?" Lorraine asked. "I came down here to avoid people—to get away. If I only could get away from myself it would be much better for me. My thoughts are what madden."

"Don't think," advised Cameron—"it may be difficult—but try it."

"I've got to try it—I've nothing else to do," was the bitter answer.

"Good!—you've the right idea!"

"I've been doing little else than thinking for the last year and a half," Lorraine continued. "It's the sight of her that stirs it up afresh, just when I thought it overcome. I tell you, Cameron, you must go through what I've gone through, loving your wife, to understand and appreciate. It is well enough for you and the rest of my friends to caution prudence—to resume the old life—to forget—to choose the expedient way—but try it! only try it!" He brought his fist down on the table. "It will be the damnedest hardest thing you have ever attempted!"

"There is no possible doubt of that, Lorraine," Cameron agreed. "But you're up against a hard proposition—one that tries men's souls, and takes a man to meet and handle. You've handled it with great credit thus far, old chap, and I want to see you handle it so to the end. We're all interested, you know—interested because we're your friends."

"I know you are," said Lorraine. "I appreciate your regard more than I can say. I'm not going to make a scene with—Stephanie; nor do anything to Amherst—if he keeps away from me. This unexpected meeting with her hasn't bereft me of quite all my senses—though it did stagger me for a moment. I'm all right now, Cameron. I'll be strictly conventional, hereafter, never fear."

"I'm not afraid," Cameron smiled. "The fateful moment has passed. You'll be right as a trivet henceforth."

He gave his order to a passing boy, and this time Lorraine joined him.

"Are you staying here for dinner?" Lorraine asked presently.

Cameron nodded. "I'm dining with the Emersons—a sort of a pick-up crowd, I fancy—at least I'm a pick-up. I wasn't asked until about half an hour ago."

"The Emersons sure are coming along," Lorraine remarked. "It's the gold key with them, all right—and they use it on every occasion. I venture they try for Burgoyne—he has just returned from abroad. He is sort of a celebrity, and a near-celebrity is better than nothing."

Cameron smiled and drank his high-ball. He had heard Lorraine holding forth before on the Emersons and their kind.

"Look at the old man there!" Lorraine went on. "He is a good-natured bounder—but he ought to be tending bar in a corner saloon rather than hob-nobbing here. And as for Mrs. Emerson!——"

"How about the daughter?" Cameron inquired.

"Except for her family, Miss Emerson is all right. Only I shouldn't want to marry her—I'd be afraid the children would breed back."

"With grandpa's money, and the present day advantages and forced culture!" laughed Cameron. "I reckon not, my friend, I reckon not."

One of the attendants approached with a telephone instrument and connected it with the wire at the side of the room.

"Some one wants to talk to you, Mr. Lorraine," he said, placing the transmitter on the table and handing him the receiver.

"Excuse me, Cameron!" said Lorraine. "Hello!"

* * * * * * * * * * *

"Yes, this is Mr. Lorraine."

* * * * * * * * * * *

"This evening—at seven-thirty!"

* * * * * * * * * * *

"Why—yes—I shall be very glad to!"

* * * * * * * * * * *

"Not at all—the pleasure is mine, I assure you."

* * * * * * * * * * *

"Yes—good-bye!"

He put down the receiver and the man took the instrument away.

"I'm elected!" he remarked.

"To what?"

"To Mrs. Emerson's pick-me-up."

"Why didn't you decline?" Cameron asked.

"Decline! How the devil could I decline—when she held me on the telephone! Damn the telephone, anyway."

"It's the old game!" laughed Cameron. "A man is helpless when a woman gets him there. He would dine with his cook, or take the laundress to the theatre, if she asked him over the telephone."

But to himself he was thinking:

"Mrs. Emerson knows of that scene on the piazza and wants to have the most talked-of man in the Club at her table to-night. She is long for the main chance."